Firebird

by Drew Beatty

  Chapter One

  It took two hours of waiting for the perfect mark to appear. My back was getting stiff from leaning up against the shuttered convenience store for so long, but if there was one thing I had developed, it was patience. I knew that it wouldn’t do to attract attention to myself by hassling too many people. Waiting for the right mark could be more effective than a dozen scattershot attempts. Consider it my version of narrowcasting, finding the ideal target market.

  This man was my market, I was sure of it.

  He was getting off the streetcar, looking carefully both ways before crossing the street. He looked like the kind a man who never touches a drink, unless it’s sacramental. His simple, open face broadcasted his willingness to help a fellow human being. It was time to make the rent.

  I pushed myself off from the wall, smoothed my clothing, and advanced on him, smiling an open, yet embarrassed, smile. “Excuse me sir,” I said, using my nearly flawless French Canadian accent. He looked up at me with suspicion, the way most little white guys look up at large black men. I’m not all that large, really, just athletic, well built you could say. “I’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you,” I continued, “but I find myself in an awkward situation.”

  He paused on the street corner, comforted, I knew, by my choice of words. Thugs are never dreadfully sorry about anything. “Please, allow me first to introduce myself, my name is Jen-Luc Goddard.”

  “Roger McNeil,” he replied, not being friendly, but following social mores. “Jen-Luc Goddard?” he repeated. “That name sound familiar.”

  “It very well might, sir.” I replied. “Perhaps you have heard of me, though? Do you follow football, ah, sorry, soccer?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” he said with suburban flatness. I knew he didn’t follow soccer, it's not very popular in Toronto. There is a spike of soccer excitement during the World Cup, with followers of the different countries showing national pride as their home country advances, but otherwise, soccer was invisible here. Even our local team, the Toronto FC had few fans, and obvious cubicle dwellers such as this man would be unlikely to be among them.

  “Ah, I see, well then I am not familiar to you. A pity. But, still, perhaps you can spare a moment for me, yes?” He nodded his assent. “I am here with the Quebec junior soccer team, we are playing in a tournament in your fair city. I find I am having some difficulty. I have rented a car, and was visiting some friends just down the road. I lost track of the time, we were having such a good visit, they are friends of my parents, actually, and when I returned to my car, a tow truck operator was about to pull it away. I must get back to the hotel, very soon, or I will miss curfew and not be allowed to play tomorrow.”

  My voice started to crack a little as I spoke, and I misted up at slightly, tears welling in the corners of me eyes. Men always get uncomfortable when other men look like they are about to cry, and will usually do anything to avoid it.

  “How can I help?” He looked up at me with his innocent, trusting eyes. I knew he was an easy mark.

  “The tow-truck man, he said he would let my car go if I gave him one-hundred dollars. I have only forty. I need sixty more dollars, or I will not make it back to the hotel. Please, I know it is much to ask, but I have come all the way from Montreal to play in this game.”

  Roger considered my pitch for a moment. “I’m not really sure, I mean, it’s a lot of money. Can’t you just withdraw some cash? There’s a machine right across the road.” Of course there is, I thought. That is why I picked this location.

  “I know of the machine, sir. But my card, it does not work with these English ATMs. Something in the strip does not work, or it cannot translate. I am not sure. I have tried at three different places. Come, I will show you.”

  He followed me across the road, totally hooked in. I knew if I could get him to the bank machine, he would withdraw at least sixty dollars for me. But it was time to bait the hook. I debated with myself internally. Do I use the powers, or hope that he was weak enough that a simple redirect would work? I went for the redirect. My powers sometimes gave me a headache, and I didn't need that today.

  “Your feet, they are size 11?” I asked, looking down at his sensible brown loafers. He nodded at me, a question in his eyes. “But that is such good luck! I too, have size 11 feet. I have many, many pairs of athletic shoes, never used. Tomorrow I can have three, four pairs sent to your home. We have many sponsors; they give us too many shoes! Do you like Nike? Adidas?”

  He thought for a moment. “I saw some new Nikes last week. A brown runner.”

  “With the green stripes?” I asked. He nodded. “I think I have a pair of these. They are yours.”

  We arrived at the bank machine. That’s when my trouble began. Who knew one little member of the First Nations could cause so many problems? He was standing at the machine, pushing buttons angrily. His midnight black hair cascaded down his back, waving back and forth like a million snakes as he shook his head, obviously frustrated with the machine. Small-boned, his jeans and matching jacket almost hung off his thin frame, but looking at him, you got the feeling you shouldn’t mess with him, if you understand me. I got the distinct impression that he could take care of himself, if he needed to.

  He yanked his card out of the machine, and looked over at us. “I think this thing might be broken, man,” he said. “I can’t get it to work. You wanna try?” He pointed at me with his card.

  “I am afraid I have been having some difficulties myself,” I replied. I looked over at Roger. “Perhaps you could try yours?” As though it would be rude to do anything else, he pulled out his wallet and stepped forward to the machine. The other guy stepped back, looking like he was giving Roger room, but I noticed he locked his eyes on the keypad as Roger typed in his PIN.

  “No, it’s not working.” He hit cancel, and waited for his card to come out. Nothing happened. He hit cancel again, and jiggled the return slot. “Shit, the machine ate my card.”

  “See man, I told you it was messed up.” The longhaired guy wandered off, muttering to himself angrily. Roger was still hitting the machine, trying in vain to get his card back.

  “It’s no use. I need to go home and call the bank. Sorry man, I guess I can’t help you after all.” He actually looked apologetic. For almost a full second, I felt guilty, but it passed.

  “Thank you for trying, friend,” I said to him. He walked off quickly, hurrying, I suppose, to call the bank. I stood on the street corner for a moment, scanning the few passersby, hoping that I could see another good candidate. I realized after a moment that with would be futile, as the machine was broken. Down the block, I noticed the First Nation’s guy from the bank machine loitering, leaning up against a storefront, glancing occasionally in my direction. I turned and walked along the street the other way and took the first corner I came to. I looked around at my surroundings and waited for a few minutes. The sun was setting, making the rundown neighbourhood look beautiful, the drab and dusty store fronts were bathed in a brilliant golden glow. Even the second hand clothing store, with its cracked, grimy windows and shabby merchandise within looked almost regal. After a moment, I turned back onto the road, and saw my skinny little friend back where I expected him, at the bank machine, coaxing the card out of the slot.

  I walked over quickly. “He was mine, Indian,” I said in my most threatening voice as I approached.

  “Person of First Nation descent, please. Indian is a misnomer based upon the fact that Columbus was a lost asshole,” he nonchalantly responded. “Come on, man, you’re blocking my light, this is delicate work.” He waved me away.

  I stepped closer, towering over him. “I said he was mine. Also, I knew that about Columbus. I was trying to be threatening.”

  “It didn’t work, you are obviously too nice a guy to be all that threatening. But fortunately for you, I agree, he was your mark, and I bet he was a good one too. He appeared to be simple enough to fall for any little scheme. I mean, he bou
ght your terrible accent, didn't he?” He looked up at me, not the slightest bit of fear in his expression, and retrieved the bankcard. He removed a thin strand of film from around the black strip, and reinserted it. “Now, what were you going to get from him, forty, maybe sixty dollars? Zero two, two zero. How much do you want to bet he was born on February twentieth?” He kept up his rapid-fire delivery while typing away at the bank machine, scarcely glancing in my direction. “Now, I have a proposal for you. You hooked the fish, so I will give you a cut of what I make. Say, twenty percent? After all, he was the first person to use this machine in a while.”

  I thought for a moment, considering. I am not a violent man, and I really didn’t relish the thought of getting into a fight with this guy. Fights can bring police, and police can bring problems, not to mention time in jail. Difficult questions could follow. Questions about immigration, identification, things like that. “Forty, forty percent,” I replied.

  “Call it thirty. I’m a reasonable guy.” Seconds later, he handed me a stack of twenty-dollar bills. Three hundred dollars in all. He stuffed the rest of the wad in his back pocket.

  “How much did you get?” I asked.

  “One thousand dollars, well, seven hundred now. He had a nice high daily limit. See you.” And then he faded into the sidewalk traffic as though he were camouflaged, leaving me standing there, looking at the pile of bills in my hand. It would take me a few days, and at least five good cons to make three hundred dollars. I worked all day every day to try to pull in one thousand dollars a week. He did that in five minutes. I looked up from the billfold, but he was gone.

  Shit.

  About the Author

  Drew Beatty has been writing fiction seriously since the birth of his first son six years ago. He is also a podcaster, and you can find Lost Gods as well as his first novel, White Trash Land, online as audiobooks through Podiobooks.com.

  When not writing, Andrew works as a teacher, reads too much, and juggles babies. Not literally, but sometimes it feels that way.

  You can find him online at drewbeatty.com. He is also an avid user of Twitter, Facebook and other social media tools. Just google drewbeatty to find him.